Triage
by Tsaemihu Kanirou
Summary: After a surprise attack, five bots are brought to the medbay in critical condition. Ratchet is fighting against time, energon loss, and sometimes even the patients themselves, all the while staving off his own exhaustion. G1. Ratchet, Twins, Wheeljack
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Triage

**Author**: Kanirou

**Rating**: T

**Warnings**: rather descriptive on the injuries, nothing excessive

**Summary**: After a surprise attack, five bots are brought to the medbay in critical condition. Ratchet is fighting against time, energon loss, and sometimes even the patients themselves, all the while staving off his own exhaustion. G1. Ratchet, Twins, Wheeljack, no slash, but definitely some fluff, especially in the second chapter.

**Disclaimer**: the usual. I do not own Transformers, neither the characters nor the concept. Property of Hasbro.

**A/N**: This was my attempt at portraying a medical emergency as realistically as possible. Ratchet is only one mech and that has got to get complicated sometimes. Creative advice given by Durithyll, and beta'd by Starseeded. Also, kudos to Darklight for pointing out quite possibly the dumbest mistake ever made. At least one of us is paying attention! Anyway, wrote this while at the beach. Enjoy!

**Edit**: Changed a few words, tweaked a few sentences. Am happier now. And by the way, astrosecond=.498 seconds, breem=8.3 minutes, cycle=1.25 hours, garnered from tidbits of the Marvel, Beast Wars, and DreamWave continuities, lol.

**Triage**

Skywarp winked right above a pocket of Autobots, his frame jolting with the sudden change in air pressure as he caught a new wind current, and was engulfed in the sounds of enemy rifles discharging. The wide blue optics and startled shouts made him nothing less than giddy as he dove among them, bulling over several with his sheer bulk as he transformed and landed heavily.

He opened fire and chaos erupted, Autobots falling where they stood or diving for cover, and Skywarp grinned maniacally as he twisted and turned and fired all around himself. Thundercracker would have his aft for taking a risk like this, but the carnage was worth it. He kicked off of one of the unfortunate few who ended up beneath him as he jumped back into the air and transformed, strafing over nearby bots before winking back out again. The entire exchange lasted mere astroseconds.

...

Ratchet had already prepped the medbay, with the returning warriors having sent ahead a medical alert as soon as they were in range. Moments after he had pulled out energon lines and sent a request down to Wheeljack's lab that more be brought up, Ironhide came storming through the doors, carrying Smokescreen. More bots soon followed, and the medbay was awash in rushing colors and a cacophony of voices.

"What happened?" Ratchet shouted, jogging next to Optimus as he rushed to put Brawn down on one of the operating tables.

"Skywarp," Optimus rumbled, as he laid the battered mech down as gently as possible, "We lost track of him, and he 'warped right into us. Most of these are point-blank."

"Slaggit," the medic hissed. He turned and scanned the room, quickly taking a tally of those deemed in critical condition by their colleagues and being laid on the tables, versus the walking wounded congregating to the side, unwilling to leave sight of their comrades. He quickly crossed the room, weaving between bots and tables, and moved to shoo them into the examination room.

"Get!" he said firmly, and spread his arms, herding them back. "I know you're worried, but all you're doing is getting in my way." He saw fear on many of their faces, and desperation. "If you want to help, go back there and figure out exactly what happened. You might remember something that can help me later." His face became stern again, "Now move it!"

Reflexively, most of them nodded and began filing into the room. Ratchet could already hear Bumblebee's voice gathering everyone's attention.

He quickly turned back around and saw Wheeljack run in carrying energon containers and spare fuel lines.

"Put those over there!" Ratchet shouted, pointing to the counter where he'd stacked the others. Wheeljack quickly complied and Ratchet took a second to memorize the scene in front of him. Smokescreen, Brawn, Sideswipe, Cliffjumper, and Jazz, all laid out on the operating tables, fluids of various colors leaking from some wounds, gushing from others. The bot who carried each was still standing next to his table, Ironhide, Optimus, Sunstreaker, Bluestreak, and Prowl, respectively.

Ratchet locked eyes with Optimus; he knew the drill.

Prime nodded his head once, and walked stiffly towards the door. He hated leaving, but he understood why Ratchet required it of him. The CMO had to be topdog in that room. A Prime would only have served as a distraction. Even though in a medical emergency Ratchet did outrank him, he ran the risk of creating hesitation, as Ratchet barked orders, some might look to him for confirmation.

Ratchet saw Prime leave, heard his voice rumble outside, and saw Mirage scurry in to take his place.

"Wheeljack!" the medic shouted, turning around to look for him.

"What?" the mechanic's head pulled out of one of the cabinets, head-fins flashing.

"Go check on the others," Ratchet said, pointing to the now closed door, "Make sure there aren't any injuries requiring immediate attention."

Wheeljack nodded and closed the cabinet, raising his arms to shimmy between Bluestreak and the counter, and moved into the other room.

Ratchet turned back to the others, quickly focusing his processors. Without a proper medical staff, he couldn't organize a true triage; he had to prioritize by quick fly-by checks and sight alone. Smokescreen had already bled enough to cover most of the surface of his table, energon pooling around the raised edges and running down the grooves to the drains in the corners.

"Listen up, you all know the drill!" Ratchet easily took command of everyone's attention, moving quickly to Smokescreen's table. "Basic first aid, stop the bleeding, keep an eye on them. Call me if something happens!"

Smokescreen was in a bad way, completely unresponsive and leaking energon and coolant from various wounds. His right arm was completely crushed, and his chest was dented and pushed slightly to the left. Even worse though, was the fluid oozing from between his armor plates, meaning there was significant build-up inside.

"What happened?" he asked Ironhide, as he felt around Smokescreen's chassis.

"He was shot up some," the big red responded in his raspy drawl, "but Ah think the real damage came after." Ratchet dug his hands into Smokescreen's sides, making sure they were stable enough to be opened up without collapsing. "When that Decepticon fragger took off, his blasts hit Smokescreen an' the rocks he was hiding behind; they fell on him."

Ratchet grunted as he lifted the left chest plate; that certainly explained the wounds. The right plate wasn't moving though; the hinges had been crushed.

"Anything else I should know?" he asked as his hand retracted to be replaced by a circular saw.

Ironhide stared at Smokescreen intently, thinking back. "Not that Ah could tell you," he said after a moment.

"Alright," Ratchet said, as he thrust his saw into Smokescreen's side, screeching through twisted metal.

Ironhide grimaced at the sound, but nodded. He put a hand on Ratchet's shoulder as he walked by and exited the room.

By this time Wheeljack had returned from the others. He bustled over to Ratchet's side, being sure not to bump him. He started to yell over the saw, but decided to wait.

"How are they?" Ratchet asked as he pulled his arm back, the saw retracting.

"Fine for the moment. Inferno has some numbness that bothers me, and Bumblebee's bleeding pretty bad, but they'll keep for now." He studied Smokescreen's internals, memorizing and cataloging. The more he knew, the more help he could be.

"Good," Ratchet lifted the right chest plate, removing it entirely, and handed it to Wheeljack, who placed it under the table. "Be hooking everyone up to the monitors," he hadn't even had time to do that. Smokescreen was bleeding out, fast.

"Gotcha." Wheeljack moved away, pushing bots aside, turning on equipment, and running cables to key junctions.

With Smokescreen's thickest armor out of the way, Ratchet bent over and scrutinized the sight before him. Purple energon and green coolant were everywhere, with most of the leaks originating from the crushed right side, and also from a bad blast wound near his waist. Translucent lubricant was also flowing from his right shoulder into his chest cavity.

As Wheeljack worked, Ratchet could hear beeps and hums coming on around the medbay. He saw the others tense as the room grew steadily noisier, and filled with the sounds of…injury. But he relaxed somewhat, with a portion of his mind now able to monitor the others' conditions, and was better able to focus on the task at hand.

Ratchet extended a vacuum from the underside of his wrist and began clearing away the pools of fluid, allowing him to see beneath. He didn't have time to sort through the mass of torn cabling. Popping a mini-soldering gun from his middle finger, he began sealing off small cables indiscriminately. He would reconnect them later. He had to pause every few astroseconds to sweep his wrist over Smokescreen's internals; his fluids were leaking faster then Ratchet was soldering. This perpetual stopping and starting caused his frustration to grow. He needed to hurry.

He did make sure to find both the severed ends of a main energon line and solder them back together, otherwise risking Smokescreen's right leg becoming energon starved.

Finally the cavity stopped refilling as soon as he cleared it; Ratchet merely had to pray he'd stopped the leaking in time. Lubricant was still oozing from his shoulder, but he knew that wouldn't cause any permanent damage now that it couldn't spill directly into his system.

He straightened up and turned away, leaving Smokescreen still leaking and open to the world, but stable for now and able to hold for final repairs. His arm would have to wait. He began to call for Wheeljack, but found the mechanic already behind him, waiting.

"Hook him up to two energon lines: one in his main port and another directly into his arm. And turn off the nerve receptors in his shoulder," he continued talking quickly over his shoulder as he moved away, "if he comes back online, I don't want him feeling that arm."

As he approached Brawn's table, he saw Sideswipe to his left. Unlike the others, he was still online, though the medic wished he wasn't. He saw what appeared to be concentrated blaster fire, three or four shots, along the left side of his neck down to his shoulder.

Three major nerve junctions ran through those areas, and at least two had been hit, judging from Sideswipe's reaction. His body was stiff, his oxygen intake valves cycling heavily, and his hand spasmodically clutching his brother's arm. He was obviously in tremendous amounts of pain, but Ratchet couldn't see anything life threatening. It had obviously been a high-intensity weapon, as the wounds were cauterized and leaking minimal energon. With a pang in his spark, and thanking Primus Sunstreaker wasn't looking at him, Ratchet continued walking to Brawn's table, making the necessary decision.

"Talk to me," he said, as his hands and optics ranged over Brawn's form.

"I didn't see it," Mirage said in that low baritone of his, "Optimus just said he'd been shot."

Those were the only wounds Ratchet could immediately see, although it looked like there was some melee damage on his chest.

"Alright, out."

Mirage obeyed, and began walking out, sidestepping away from Sideswipe's table when Sunstreaker shot him a withering glare.

Ratchet keyed a command into Brawn's table, and the overhead saw disengaged from its position in the corner and began tracking its way across the ceiling towards him.

His own hand-saw was too small to get through Brawn's armor quickly, and the penetrating laser blasts had sent Brawn into emergency joint-lock, normally intended to prevent him from transforming, but also preventing Ratchet from opening him up along his hinge lines.

"Come on," Ratchet said, frustrated at the saw's slow movement. He reached up and grabbed the handle right above the saw, pulling it down and extending the arm before the machine even clicked into its final position right above the table.

Ratchet brought the saw down at the top of Brawn's chest, along his center line, and pushed. He leaned over the saw, putting his weight into it, and the saw shrieked and spat flecks of metal as it burrowed through thick, tempered plating.

The saw and Ratchet lurched slightly as it finally punched through Brawn's armor and into his chest cavity. Ratchet immediately pulled up, preventing the saw from causing further damage.

Bluestreak, who had been watching with frozen fascination, suddenly blanched and looked away.

Now that Ratchet was all the way through, he began guiding the saw down, splitting Brawn's chest. When he reached the abdomen, he lifted the saw out, turned it ninety degrees, and pushed back down, having to dig again. He leaned over and threw more of his weight on. This was taking too long.

"Wheeljack!" he called.

The mechanic left Jazz's table and hurried over.

"Take this," Ratchet said, handing him the saw. "Cut along here," he indicated the bottom of Brawn's chest, "all the way to the sides, and follow this seam here."

Ratchet lifted Brawn's right arm, squinted and nodded. "Then, come back to this center line and cut down his abdomen. The armor's shallower there, so watch it."

Wheeljack followed Ratchet's finger and nodded his understanding, taking the saw and pushing back into where Ratchet had left off.

Ratchet then put Brawn's arm down, away from his body, and squatted next to the table, his own hand being replaced by his saw again. The thinner plating under the arm and along the sides could be handled by Ratchet's own equipment. He pushed into the junction right below Brawn's shoulder and began sawing.

The two continued in this manner until Brawn's front had been divided into four quadrants: left and right chest; left and right abdomen.

All four pieces were carefully removed. Ratchet, holding the right abdominal plate, turned it over and inspected it. A clean hole had been burned right through, even Brawn's armor not slowing it much. Optimus had said point-blank.

He then studied Brawn's injuries, Wheeljack putting the plates beneath the table. Two shots to the abdomen, one to the left chest, along with what was now confirmed to be a piece of shrapnel buried near the center line.

Energon filled the chest cavity, but the abdominal cavity was relatively dry. Ratchet extended his vacuum and soldering gun again, ready to go to work.

As he cleared fluid and sealed wires, he realized something was wrong. There weren't enough torn cables to account for the amount of energon in Brawn's chest, and there wasn't enough energon to match the torn cables in his abdomen.

Ratchet's anxiety grew until he reached the piece of shrapnel.

"Slaggit," he cursed.

Sucking up the surrounding liquid revealed the shard to have severed Brawn's primary energon line, running right down his chest. Energon was spilling out before ever reaching his abdomen.

Ratchet took a firm grip on the shard, hands slick with fluid, and yanked it out.

Brawn's body twitched with the force; the shard now contained in Ratchet's hand was larger than he'd anticipated.

He threw it in a tray next to the table and quickly began fishing for the other end of the line. When he found it he cursed again. The shrapnel had ripped up the side before severing the cable where he'd pulled it out. He was going to have to reconstruct the split end before reconnecting the cable.

Wheeljack, having been forced to pick up some medical procedural knowledge as Ratchet's only possible assistant, was already moving to clamp to upper line to prevent further energon loss while Ratchet worked. Ratchet pulled the sides of the split line together and pinched it near the top with his left hand and began soldering up the side with his right. His hands were slick with energon though, and one side slipped from his grip and fell away.

"To the Pit with it" he snarled, quickly wiping his fingers on his leg plating, leaving purple streaks running down the white metal, and went back in.

"Ratchet!" he heard Bluestreak call.

He couldn't leave yet, Brawn's lowers needed this energon.

"Ratchet!"

"Wait slaggit," he grit through his teeth. So close, so close.

"_Ratchet_!" it was a desperate shriek.

"Frag!" He dropped the lower line, still partially split, checked the clamp on the upper line, and prayed to Primus Brawn would hold long enough for him to get back.

He rushed to Cliffjumper's table, "What's wrong?"

"He started jerking and leaking all this!" Bluestreak tumbled out.

Cliffjumper was seizing, and green fluid was pooling beneath him.

"What happened?" Ratchet put a hand on Bluestreak's shoulder, trying to focus him.

"Um, Skywarp- Skywarp stepped on him. Stood on him actually." Bluestreak's wide optics fell back to the table.

Ratchet could see that Cliffjumper's front was damaged, with his curved chest plate crumpled nearly flat, but it didn't look immediately life threatening. Large as Skywarp was, his foot probably covered most of the Minibot's chassis; there wouldn't have been any concentrated pressure. Ratchet bent down, took a hold of the Minibot's left shoulder, and pulled up, rolling him over enough for Ratchet to see beneath.

Cliffjumper immediately began seizing more violently, nearly jerking out of Ratchet's grip.

"PIT!" Ratchet exclaimed, as he quickly laid Cliffjumper flat again. He'd seen enough. He looked at Bluestreak, saw the panic on his face, and turned around.

"Prowl!"

The tactician looked up from Jazz, "Yes, Ratchet?"

"Stay there for now, but I'm gonna need you in a minute."

The lieutenant nodded, and settled his optics on Cliffjumper's table, watching and waiting.

Ratchet saw that Bluestreak was still standing next to the table, looking lost. He took a breath to steady himself, and said as calmly as possible, "You did good, Bluestreak. Out."

Bluestreak nodded as he backed up, and with one last look at the berth turned and scrambled out.

Ratchet immediately got to work on Cliffjumper, processors whirling. He hastily checked Cliffjumper's hinges and saw they were still working. He thanked Primus for that, because while Skywarp's foot hadn't punctured anything, the intense pressure had caused the metal to fold on itself and fractures to spider web across the whole Minibot's chest. Sawing through could've easily splintered it more.

Ratchet dug his fingers into the bottom of Cliffjumper's chest, flicked the appropriate switches, and lifted. He then unscrewed the top hinge and removed the entire chest plate, throwing it under the table.

Ratchet's spark sank. Several of Cliffjumper's internal mechanisms were fractured, and a coolant line had burst. What terrified the medic however, were the fractures in the spark casing, and the cold, green fluid leaking directly into it.

"No, no, no…" he hissed. "Wheeljack, now!"

The mechanic was immediately on the other side of the table.

"Put a clamp on that line!" Ratchet had extended his vacuum, and was already clearing away the liquid as quickly as possible. Coolant was necessary to a Transformer's function, but it was cold, and it was toxic. Introduce it into a mech's system, and it could wreak havoc. Pour it on the spark, and it would very well extinguish it.

Ratchet feared significant amounts of coolant had already worked their way into the spark chamber and were collecting at the bottom. When Ratchet had begun to roll Cliffjumper over, he'd probably near terminated him, sloshing that fluid over his spark again.

With the line clamped and the flow stopped, Ratchet managed to clean most of it up. He then extended the full soldering gun from his forearm and began repairing the fractures in the casing hastily. The clock was ticking; he only had time to seal the largest fractures before he'd have to get under Cliffjumper and work on the wound he glimpsed in the astrosecond he'd had to look. If it was what he thought it was, it needed tending, now.

"Hey!" Ratchet heard Sunstreaker call from behind him.

Without looking up, Ratchet said, "Wheeljack, go check on him."

Wheeljack moved away, and Ratchet continued. He also noticed the lower end of the coolant cable had been crushed. He wouldn't have time to reshape it; he was just going to have to cut that portion off and reattach the cable further down.

"Get off!" Sunstreaker yelled, and the crash of metal hitting metal followed. "Ratchet, get over here!"

The medic whipped around. Wheeljack had backed away from the warrior, and Sunstreaker was glaring daggers at him. "What?" Ratchet barked.

"Sideswipe's getting worse!" he exclaimed, throwing an arm back to point at his brother.

Ratchet saw that he was. His body was now lying limp on the table, though his fists were still clenched, and his optics were flickering. With a growl of frustration at his inability to be in two places at once, Ratchet turned back to Cliffjumper. "He'll have to wait, Sunstreaker."

"What?" Sunstreaker shrieked incredulously. "He's offlining!"

"I saw him earlier; it's not lethal! If you're that worried, let Wheeljack prove me wrong!" Ratchet cast over his shoulder. "Until then, I know Cliffjumper needs me now."

"Frag that," the Lamborghini growled, crossing the room.

Ratchet extended a laser-scalpel from his index finger, preparing to cut the damaged end of the cable off, until he felt a hand grab his shoulder and spin him around. His scalpel was dragged across Cliffjumper's internals, and Ratchet felt his spark plunge into ice, knowing he could have cut any number of vital lines, but a burning rage quickly replaced it.

With a roar, he rammed Sunstreaker against the wall, "How dare you?" Scalpel still extended, he plunged his hand into the back of Sunstreaker's neck. The Lamborghini let out a bellow, and the only thing that stopped Ratchet was a shout from Wheeljack.

"Ratchet, stop!"

The medic froze, seething with anger. His scalpel was hovering right above Sunstreaker's main nerve line; just a twitch of the finger would have the mech in a helpless heap on the floor, to lie there until Ratchet deigned to repair him.

However, as close as they were, face-to-face, Ratchet could see through Sunstreaker's fury. He could see pain, his brother's pain, and even worse: fear.

His rage tempered somewhat, he ripped his hand out of Sunstreaker's neck and settled for slugging him across the face, still sending him to the floor.

"If you _ever_, do anything like that again," he hissed, "I swear to Primus you'll wish the Decepticons had gotten you." He lifted his arm and pointed at Sideswipe. "Go to your brother; stay with him until I can get there."

Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, and with a stare heated enough to melt steel, Sunstreaker stood up and stalked to the table, taking his brother's head in his hands, and whispering something the others couldn't hear.

Ratchet turned around and rushed back to Cliffjumper. A quick check showed that Sunstreaker's interference hadn't caused any damage, but precious time had been lost.

Believing the seals on the casing would hold for the time being, he brought the scalpel back out and finished cutting off the damaged end of the coolant cable. He then took the clamp off the upper end and began soldering the two together. After cleaning up the coolant that spilled in that time, he finally turned to Prowl.

"Get over here," Ratchet flicked his arm, motioning the Datsun over.

With a last glance at Jazz, Prowl quickly obeyed, jogging over briskly. "What do you need me to do?"

"I need you to take hold of his shoulders, and slide him off the table." Prowl was listening intently. "Hold him as steady as possible. I need to work on his back without flipping him over."

The lieutenant nodded curtly and moved to the head of Cliffjumper's table, putting a hand on each shoulder and waiting for Ratchet's signal.

Ratchet turned around, but Wheeljack beat him to it.

"What am I doing?" he asked.

"You are getting the tool kit and handing me things," Ratchet pointed to the counter, "starting with a rag."

Wheeljack leaned over and grabbed a rag from a nearby table, tossing it to Ratchet, and moved to get the kit.

Ratchet ran the rag over his hands, getting the worst of the energon off. His arms were still streaked purple, but at least his fingers weren't slick anymore.

Wheeljack returned as Ratchet tossed the rag and sat down next to the table, slapping Prowl's leg to get him to take a step back. He did, giving the medic room to lay down, with his head and shoulders under the leaning Datsun.

Ratchet put his arms up, not quite reaching the table top, and said, "Wheeljack, lower the table."

Wheeljack pushed and held a button near Cliffjumper's feet, and the table's inner hydraulics began humming, smoothly bringing the table down.

When Ratchet's fingers breached the tabletop, he began bending his elbows, matching the table's height. Prowl took a knee, hands still on the Minibot's shoulders.

"Stop," Ratchet said, when the table was lowered to a point he could work with.

Wheeljack released the button and moved to kneel near Ratchet, kit in hands.

"Okay, Prowl, start pulling. Slowly."

Prowl took one moment to slip his hands under Cliffjumper's shoulders, made sure his grip was secure, and began sliding him off the table.

As he pulled, green fluid sloshed from the table and onto Ratchet's arm, who ignored it. As Cliffjumper was moved further out, the ragged edges of torn metal began coming into view, and fresh green liquid began dripping onto Ratchet's face. He shifted a little, with the stream now hitting his neck. Once the red bot's entire upper body was exposed, Ratchet called Prowl to a halt.

"Can you hold him there?" he asked, his tone leaving little room for negotiation.

"Yes," Prowl confirmed.

"Good."

What Ratchet had glimpsed earlier was now visible in grisly detail. It looked like someone had punched a hole in the Minibot. His armor was caved inward, coming to a point inside the chassis where it had been torn through completely. With Bluestreak's account, near as Ratchet could figure, there had been a rock beneath Cliffjumper when he fell, and Skywarp's weight had nearly skewered him on it.

"Wheeljack, I need the flexible nozzle." Ratchet held his left hand out as his wrist extended the vacuum.

Wheeljack quickly pulled the nozzle out and handed it to Ratchet, who then connected it to his wrist. Threading the hose through the hole and into what Ratchet now knew to be Cliffjumper's spark chamber, he began clearing out the coolant that had collected in the bottom.

As the vacuum worked, Ratchet realized how close Cliffjumper had come to terminating. The amount of coolant in the chamber and on the table was plenty to have extinguished his spark, but the wound had almost acted as a drain, allowing the coolant that had leaked in to leak out his back. Horrific as it was, it had probably saved Cliffjumper's life.

Once he was positive he'd gotten all of the coolant out of the chamber, he pulled the hose out and handed it back to Wheeljack. The mass of twisted metal and tangled wires was impossible for Ratchet to sort through as he was, but Cliffjumper could now be safely turned over.

"Okay, Prowl," Ratchet said as he sat up, "ease him back onto the table."

Prowl did so, being sure not to jostle the Minibot too much, and laid him to rest gently. As Ratchet stood, Wheeljack raised the table back to its standard height. The two then proceeded to slowly flip him over.

Ratchet had to remove most of Cliffjumper's back plating, with most of the damage being irreparable. That out of the way, he was able to begin sorting through various systems and expose the back of the spark casing.

"I need three clips," Ratchet said without looking up, still wrist deep in Cliffjumper's internals. He was carefully gathering the assortment of tubes, cables, and wires between him and the spark chamber and pushing them aside. Many were severed or otherwise damaged, but he had no time for them at the moment. Wheeljack, who had leaned over and grabbed the kit on the neighboring table, now had his hand poised waiting for Ratchet's direction.

"Here," Ratchet motioned to where he was holding a bundle on the left, "here, and here," to two more on the right. Wheeljack clipped everything safely to the side, leaving Ratchet free to work without further damaging other systems.

With his laser-scalpel, Ratchet carefully cut away at the edges of the puncture wound, leaving a smooth, clean, irregularly-shaped hole.

"Get me a sheet of Durillium," Ratchet motioned to the back of the medbay.

Wheeljack jogged over, opened a cabinet and scanned down the list of labels. Finding the desired metal, he grabbed a sheet, closed the cabinet, and jogged back to Ratchet.

"Here," he said.

Ratchet took it, laid it on the table, and cut off the desired portion with his saw. Placing the patch over the hole, he began soldering it to the casing. The space he'd managed to clear was limited, so he had to be careful not to burn the bundled cables on the sides, but as little puffs of smoke marked his progress, he steadily worked his way around the edges. As he finally met back up with his starting point, he retracted his soldering gun and gave the patch a solid thump with the heel of his palm. Seeing it securely in place, Ratchet was finally able to breathe easy; Cliffjumper's own repair systems would work on that until the repair was seamless.

"Help me turn him over," he said, and he and Wheeljack carefully picked the minibot up and put him on his back. With a last quick check that the hasty repairs he'd made earlier would hold for the time being, and that the things he hadn't gotten to could wait, he straightened up and turned away.

Things slowed down significantly after that. Ratchet returned to Brawn, reconstructed the energon line and connected it to its upper counterpart with minimal further energon loss. When he approached Jazz's table, Prowl informed him that the saboteur had taken a shot from Starscream's null rays to the head, albeit from a distance. After a quick scan, Ratchet assured him that the shot had been glancing, and all Jazz needed was some electronic stimulation, and his impulses should sort themselves out by the next day.

Approaching Sideswipe's table, Sunstreaker stared at him balefully, but let him work without comment. He put his hand on the side of his brother's face, turning his head away from his injuries, and leaned in close, touching their foreheads together.

Ratchet worked as quickly and carefully as possible, trying to ease the pain he knew the burnt and frazzled nerves were pulsing through Sideswipe's whole system. He saw the red and yellow mechs alike twitch whenever he hit a particularly sensitive spot. Sideswipe was lucky really; the pain was enormous, but the damage was minimal compared to what could have been. The blasts had been grazing, fired from in front of Sideswipe and taking chunks out as they whizzed by his neck. Had they been fired directly into his neck, there'd be nothing Ratchet could do and Sideswipe would've been brought in dead on arrival. After several breems of intense and delicate work, Ratchet had done all he could; the rest would be left to Sideswipe's own systems.

Ratchet returned to Smokescreen, and found that most of the internal mechanisms in his arm had only minor damage, with the exception of his shoulder. All of the armor had to be removed though, and sent down to Wheeljack's lab, along with several pieces from the other mechs, where it would be repaired or replaced entirely.

Ratchet then began bringing in the mechs who'd been waiting for treatment one at a time, checking their systems and making repairs as necessary. This continued cycle after cycle, and by the end of the day, the medbay had turned most of its patients loose, with the exception of the initial five and two Ratchet had spend the night for precautionary monitoring.

Sunstreaker was still sitting by his brother's table, where the red mech had mercifully slipped into recharge breems ago. Ratchet walked over quietly, and popped his soldering gun out.

"Don't bother him, he's recharging," Sunstreaker said brusquely, looking up from his brother's face.

"I'm not here for him. I haven't forgotten about you, you little Pit spawn," Ratchet said wryly. "Turn around."

Stunned, Sunstreaker waved him off, "It's not a big deal."

"My aft it isn't, I very nearly cut your main nerve."

"I know," the yellow mech replied. Trained as he was, he'd known exactly what Ratchet had been doing.

The two stared at each other. Once Sunstreaker realized Ratchet wasn't going anywhere, he shot him one last glare and turned around, dropping his head to give the medic more room to work.

Ratchet patched things up quickly. Amazingly enough, Sunstreaker had not complained once the entire day. Though Ratchet had caused minimal damage, it would hardly have been comfortable. Repairs finished, he stepped away, giving Sunstreaker his space again.

The yellow warrior turned back around, rolling his shoulders and relaxing visibly. Ratchet stood there, studying him, but Sunstreaker made no move to acknowledge it.

"You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you and your brother," Ratchet finally said, and his tone made it clear that was a statement, not a question.

Sunstreaker just stared at Sideswipe, not answering.

"I just need you to trust me," Ratchet finished.

Expecting a similar lack of response, the white mech was stunned when Sunstreaker answered, "I do."

Understanding the gravity of that simple statement, Ratchet's spark flared. He put his hand on Sideswipe's shoulder, and gave Sunstreaker a small smile. The Lamborghini's mouth twitched back, and his optics fell back to his brother.

With a last glance around the medbay, Ratchet turned and walked away, heading for his office in the back. He was exhausted, he had cycles of intricate patch-up work on at least four of those mechs ahead of him tomorrow, and his berth was calling to him. He barely managed to lay himself down before falling into recharge.

...

**A/N:** Aaand that's that. Critique is not only appreciated, but humbly begged for. Especially on the portrayal of the medbay and Transformer internals; that's still kind of a work in progress. Remember, reviews=cookies, please feed the author!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: First of all, I wanna give a big thanks to those who reviewed the first chapter. Seriously, nothing makes me happier than some feedback, and I hardly expected the wonderful things some of y'all said, so thanks ;)

But yeah, so, this is random, eh? Wrote the first part over two years ago, and now this popped into my head. Truth is, I've been having difficulty with the other fics I'm currently working on (two Transformers fics and two Team Fortress 2 fics, all of which are rather long and plotty) and was just looking to do something else. It was a nice little reprieve, quite therapeutic actually.

Oh, and I am incapable of re-reading something and not editing it, so the first chapter actually got some significant re-hauling in a few areas ::facepalm::

Anyway, this is mainly just further characterization, and my inner flufftard decided to pay a visit, so if you like that kind of stuff, have at it XD (Funnily enough, ALSO started at the beach)

...

Ratchet's optics flicked back on, glowing blue in the darkness of his office. There was an alarm coming from the monitor next to his door. It was only a soft beeping, blipping in time with the screen flashing a bright blue, alternately lighting his office in soft hues and blacking back out again.

Over the vorns, he'd trained himself to recharge lightly when in his office, ready to be up and alert at the slightest indication. But this was nothing more than a scheduled alarm he'd programmed the previous day. He swung out of his berth and walked over to the monitor, keying off the alarm. The beeping stopped, and the screen dialed down to a much more tolerable level of brightness as it flicked over to a text box.

Ah, Jazz was coming online. Ratchet looked at the time in the corner and realized it'd only been a little under two cycles since he'd turned in. That was sooner than expected.

He pushed the small plate next to his door and it hissed open quietly. The OR was dimly lit, just enough for him to work by without disturbing those on the berths. He grabbed a datapad sitting on the counter and walked over to Jazz' berth, seeing that the saboteur's visor was already glowing.

Jazz turned his head to watch Ratchet's approach, and cracked a wry grin when the medic reached his table. "What's up, Doc?" he said quietly.

Jazz, ever the humorist. Ratchet ignored him and instead asked, "How are you feeling?"

With a slight purse of his lips, Jazz sighed, "Tired, an'a bit confused. How'd I end up in here this time?"

Ratchet hmph-ed at that, scrolling through the text on the datapad that he'd hooked up to Jazz' berth. "You got yourself shot," his optics continued scanning the read out, "by Starscream." Satisfied with the report, he looked down at Jazz and whacked him lightly on the head with the datapad, "In the face," he finished.

Jazz' expression took on a slightly worried look as Ratchet disconnected a scanner from its dock on the side of the berth. Starscream's null rays were intended to incapacitate, scrambling a mech's electrical circuits and essentially paralyzing him, but if the CPU was hit, they could cause permanent damage, even termination.

Ratchet saw Jazz stiffen, and as he wired the scanner into the datapad said, "Don't worry, that interminable luck of yours kicked in." Jazz released his held breath and chuckled as Ratchet ran the scanner over his face a few times, staring intently at the 'pad as it scrolled through its readings. "According to Prowl, Starscream was over twelve hundred meters away when he fired the shot. The fact that the arrogant Pit spawn got you at all is stunning," he said as he turned off the scanner and put it back in its dock. "It also appears to have just glanced off your faceplates, not getting fully absorbed." He rapped the back of his knuckle against Jazz' visor, "Your optics working?"

Jazz looked around, "s'it _supposed_ t'be dark in here?"

"Yes."

"Then I guess they're fine, Doc," as he smiled up at him.

"Hmmm, I'll look them over more closely in the morning," he clicked the datapad into its dock as well. "The real question is: how much of yesterday do you remember?"

"Uh, how much of yesterday should I remember?"

Ratchet's mouth twitched, "We got the alert at 1300 that the Decepticons were giving a plant on the Gulf coast some trouble. You remember that?"

"Yeah, but you said 1300?" Jazz thought for a moment, then shrugged and said, "Yeah, I got that, but the last thing I remember before that was relieving ole Gears from monitor duty at 0700." He rolled his head over and gave Ratchet a sheepish smile, "I gotta bit of a hole in between there."

"Prowl said you were in combat for .48 cycles before being shot. Remember that?"

"Half a cycle? Shoot, man, no way." He worked his jaw back and forth for a second, "I do remember an explosion."

"That'd be part of the plant going up."

"Theeeen, waking up here," he shrugged again, "that's all I got."

Ratchet hmmm-ed as he connected a few more wires next to those already running into both sides of Jazz' helm. "Well, I'm going to put you back out."

Jazz gave a slight pout, "What for?"

"Some of your impulses still need sorting, and your memories will come back more cohesively if you're not wracking your CPU trying to actively reconstruct them." He twisted a few of the cables, making sure the electrodes were in securely, and then straightened up.

Jazz sighed, "Alright, Ratch-man, you're the boss. When'll you be bringing me back online?"

"Six cycles from now." He keyed a command into the berth, which was followed by a low hum, and Jazz' visor dimmed as specific systems were turned off. In addition to the induced offline, steady pulses of electricity would speed the recovery process as Jazz' affected systems continued to unscramble themselves and default back to their standard settings.

Ratchet took the datapad out of its dock, scanned the last bits of the readout, and turned to head back into his office, only to realize that another pair of optics were watching him appraisingly. He scoffed lightly and began making his way over to Sideswipe's table.

"What?" the red mech said with a smirk as he propped himself up on one elbow, "Jazz gets a special alarm when he onlines, and the rest of us just get to lie here?"

"None of _you_," Ratchet replied, glaring down at him, "had possible CPU damage."

Sideswipe shot him a victorious look.

Ratchet rolled his optics and snorted, shoving Sideswipe back against the table and looming over him face-to-face, "None that was treatable anyway."

Sideswipe just smiled smugly at him, and Ratchet pushed against the smart-aft harder than was necessary as he straightened himself back up.

He was awake, he was here, he might as well run a check-up. He put the datapad down, leaned over, and put his left hand on Sideswipe's helm, holding him still. The red mech narrowed his optics at him, but cooperated. Ratchet ran his fingers over Sideswipe's neck and partway down to his shoulder, where the plating had been blasted away and the cables ran exposed. He prodded his fingers into the cables lightly, spreading them apart, looking beneath them, checking for any signs of further needed repair. Sideswipe's mouth twitched, obviously still in pain, "You done?" he snipped.

Ratchet glared at him, but stood up and said, "Almost." He pulled the scanner out of Sideswipe's berth, connected it to the cable running out of the datapad, and ran it over the mech's neck and shoulder a few times. The receptors were still repairing themselves, with many still inert and those that were functioning no doubt pulsing pain, but the junctions were connected snugly and whatever jumbled signals were being received were at least being transmitted along the cables smoothly.

It would still be a good mega-cycle before the pain really went away, and several more before those sensitive systems lost their ache, and probably near a deca-cycle til their finely tuned inner workings would be fully repaired, but Ratchet had reconnected, replaced, and repaired all the major damage, and there was nothing more he could do. Certainly nothing threatening lingered, and the medic had every expectation of turning the red mech loose later that day, and he also expected he would be happy to be well rid of him by that time, if either Sideswipe's or his brother's previous behavior towards being cooped up in the medbay for prolonged periods was any indication.

"Looking good," he said as he straightened up, putting the scanner back in its dock.

Sideswipe squinted and sneered "You're so kind" as he stretched his neck and tried to resettle comfortably on the berth.

Ratchet bit back a retort, knowing it was just the proud warrior's way of dealing with pain, and really, he was more cooperative than a certain yellow glitch he could think of. Ratchet was too tired to really engage in the usual verbal jousting anyway. "Hmph," he said dismissively, and scanning over certain sections of the readout again, he said, "You could still use more rest, and your circuits will repair more quickly in you're recharging."

Sideswipe narrowed his optics and worked his jaw, obviously not the response he was looking for, and looked about to try and bait the bear again, but instead shrugged and acquiesced, for whatever reason Ratchet certainly had no idea. Instead he just scoffed and smiled. "Whatever," he said with a smirk and a slight wave of his hand, and laying his injured arm over his chest, he ended the conversation by quite obviously settling in to recharge.

Ratchet reached down towards the plate near the back of Sideswipe's helm, but when the warrior noticed he pulled away with a snort and a slap to Ratchet's hand, "Hey, what's that for?"

Ratchet slapped his hand right back, "Keep your voice down!" he hissed in an overly hushed whisper, as he pointedly looked back over his shoulder at the dark medbay and its recharging patients and then back at Sideswipe.

Sideswipe just glared at him, with nothing he could really say to that and instead ignored it, "I can recharge on my own just fine."

Ratchet sighed; the Twins never liked induced offlines, several of the warriors didn't. It made them feel vulnerable. "Sideswipe, you'll recharge more soundly if I induce it, and I don't want to listen to your complaining if I wake you up while I'm working."

Sideswipe took in a deep breath, but again seemed to hold himself back and finally visibly deflated, and with an obvious pout gave a very grudging "Fine."

Ratchet reached forward again, but Sideswipe suddenly turned to speak.

"Hey, wait-"

"Primus" Ratchet heaved with a sigh.

"No, no" Sideswipe interrupted, trying to keep his voice down to keep from disturbing the other mechs. "Look, about Sunny..."

Ratchet looked at him contemplatively, "Conscious through that were you?"

"Conscious enough, look-"

"Don't," Ratchet cut him off, "your brother and I worked it out ourselves."

Sideswipe looked rather concerned with that answer.

"Peacefully," he said, crossing his arms, but when he saw the mech's completely disbelieving look, he amended, "Relatively. Sideswipe," he dropped his arms, "it's fine. I promise. Your brother did some disastrously stupid things yesterday, but we've covered it. And besides," he said with a sigh, "this is as much his business as mine, and he's touchier about these things. If you want to know, ask him first. There's nothing about this he shouldn't want to talk to you about.

"But," he added, "you make it clear to him that if something like that ever happens again, I will ban him from this medbay unless he's carried in here."

Sideswipe seemed to chew that over, and settled for asking, "So you're okay?"

"Yes, Sideswipe, I'm okay. We're okay. Now then-"

"Where is he?"

Ratchet was about to just forcibly shut the mech down, but he took a calming breath and said, "Our spark to spark seemed to mellow him out some, and I actually managed to get him to recharge in the examination room instead of in that chair right there. I'm sure he'll be in as soon as he wakes. Anything else?" he asked, tone very clear there better not be.

Sideswipe seemed able to settle with that, if still eyeing the medic a little suspiciously, but shrugged his shoulders and laid his helm back on the berth.

Ratchet huffed and finished opening up the back plating on Sideswipe's helm, the Lambourghini not resisting and seeming more or less consoled. Ratchet sent in the signal to put the red mech offline, and when his optics dimmed and the hum of his processors whirred down to a lower pitch, he closed the plating and turned away.

Ratchet shook his head to clear away some of the awkwardness of that conversation. There were few mechs he could tread through inner ground with, and he and the Twins hadn't quite worked out that system yet. With a sigh, he leaned one hand on an empty table and looked over the rest of the medbay. Everyone else seemed to be as offline as they were expected to be, and Ratchet had every intention of leaving most of them alone til morning, but there were a few he needed to check up on.

As he walked across the room, he looked at the drains in the floor and the corners of the tables, knew how much precious fluid had spilled into them yesterday, and also knew that all that energon, coolant, and lubricant was already being filtered, separated, sterilized, and tanked for future use. Inevitable future use.

Ratchet rubbed his face with one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was exhausted, always exhausted. There was never enough fuel and the Decepticons were always hunting and the humans were never prepared and the Autobots always felt the need to fling themselves into danger and Megatron never stopped and _neither did Optimus_. Still pinching his nose, he took a breath and let it out, dropping his hand and approaching Cliffjumper's table. This was hard enough back on Cybertron, with a whole staff of doctors and aides, specialized ORs, and ships bringing supplies every deca-cycle or so. Now it was him, just him, and the mechs he had come to care entirely too much about. Medical work requires complete and total objectivity, and as he looked down at Cliffjumper's face, the brash and loud bot who was perpetually unaware of his being half his enemies' size and had a penchant for Earth speed metal, he revisited the grueling fact that he'd lost that objectivity thousands of years ago with this crew.

But, he'd accepted that fact long ago as well, and knew the affection would distract him but also drive him, give him the boost he'd need. Even if it would drive him mad one day. Pushing all that aside, he pulled the scanner out of Cliffjumper's table and held it over his chest, steady, right over his spark chamber. He stared at the datapad carefully, analyzing the spark-wave readout undulating across the screen. The intensity was low, but the frequency was steady and at an appropriate rate for a bot his size. Weak but healthy. Ratchet nodded and put the scanner back, pausing to look at Cliffjumper and shake his head before the door to the medbay suddenly whooshed open quietly. He flinched, not because he was startled, but because he knew what was coming.

"Ratchet!" Wheeljack hissed as he made a beeline for the white mech. "I only gave myself three cycles, how long have you been up?" As he parked himself in front of the taller medic, he leaned in with narrowed optics and added, "You _did_ go recharge right?"

"Don't you look at me like that. And I've only been up a couple breems," Ratchet raised his hands placatingly, "I had an alarm synchronized with Jazz' monitors, he came online and I came to check on him."

"Hm," Wheeljack continued glaring, "this doesn't look like Jazz," he said, motioning to the red minibot whose table they were standing beside.

Ratchet got slightly irate having to explain himself in his own medbay, "I was up, I decided to check on the others while-"

"Yes, yes, back to your office. Now." Wheeljack had already grabbed Ratchet's shoulder and was turning him around. He was arguably the only mech on the entire base who could interrupt Ratchet like that and get away with it, as the medic even growled at Prime when he felt he wasn't being listened to.

Ratchet very pointedly stopped himself and said, "Brawn's energon levels need to be checked."

"Which I am more than capable of doing," Wheeljack countered, nudging Ratchet towards his office again. He knew better than to even try to get the CMO to go to his proper quarters, but a berth was a berth at this point.

Ratchet sighed and acquiesced. He really was exhausted, and he knew Wheeljack was only doing his job; as friend and as medical assistant. Someone had to look out for the doctor after all.

Wheeljack keyed the door open and ushered Ratchet inside. "Sit," he said as he keyed the door shut and dialed up the lights a bit, still dim but able to work by. Ratchet collapsed on the edge of his berth with a heavy sigh, elbows on knees and a hand rubbing the back of his helm.

Wheeljack stood appraising him for a moment and finally said, "You look awful." And he really did. The mech had obviously gone straight from the OR to his berth, probably just collapsing as soon as he got in there and going straight into recharge. He'd never bothered getting cleaned up.

Ratchet looked up at him, puzzled, then down at his arms and legs as if noticing this for the first time. He had dried energon all over him, long smears on his legs and splashes on his arms and chest, with bright green coolant running down most of his right side as well, and areas that had gotten lubricant smeared in with them were still wet and glossy. Ratchet reached for a large datapad sitting on a nearby shelf, still turned off and its screen black and reflective. He took one look, then flicked the datapad onto his berth and groaned, head hanging. He had energon smeared over his brow and coolant splashed on his cheek. No wonder Sideswipe hadn't played hardball, the glitch had probably _pitied_ him. He ground his jaw at that, embarrassed that he'd apparently looked miserable enough for a Lambo to go easy on him, quite ready to go wake the mech up and tell him otherwise.

Wheeljack sighed and walked over to Ratchet's desk, "Ratch, come on, relax, whadda you think I care how you look?" he said as he opened a cabinet and pulled out some rags and a bottle.

"It's not you," Ratchet said, "it's Sideswipe, he was downright _compliant_ when I was with him earlier. Now I know why." He was staring at the ground harshly when Wheeljack knelt in front of him.

"Hmph, your Big Bad Medic image took a knock today," he said sarcastically, "about fraggin' time, too many don't understand what you go through around here." He unscrewed the cap on the bottle and began dabbing it onto one of the rags.

"I'm fine," Ratchet said, and jerked his head back when Wheeljack brought the rag near it, "and I'm fine now too," he said mulishly, moving to take the rag himself.

"Ratchet, please," he pulled the rag back towards his head and held Ratchet's gaze, "let me do this."

Ratchet stared at him. Wheeljack, the one mech he could let go and give the wheel to sometimes. The engineer's optics bored into him, wanting only to help his friend. Ratchet knew it wouldn't be fair to stop him.

He sighed and hung his head, Wheeljack putting a hand beneath his chin and picking it back up, that hand moving to Ratchet's shoulder while the other began dabbing at energon stains. "Primus, Ratchet, you've gotta take better care of yourself."

Ratchet hmph-ed as Wheeljack wiped above his optics, "That's what you're for, isn't it?"

Wheeljack pulled back to refold the cloth and dab more cleaner on and then shoved a finger in Ratchet's face, "Slaggin' right. So you listen to me."

Ratchet gave him a tired smile as Wheelack wiped the last of the coolant off his face. He folded the cloth over itself again and poured more cleaner on, moving down to wash the coolant out of the cables of Ratchet's neck.

Ratchet looked up slightly to give him better access. He sighed, "Thanks, Wheeljack."

Wheeljack looked up at him and flashed his headfins affectionately, then dropped the first cloth entirely and grabbed the second, pouring a liberal amount of cleaner on it and moving to clean the energon off Ratchet's arm.

Ratchet's optics dimmed under the ministrations, and he leaned forward slightly and rested his head on Wheeljack's shoulder, letting out a heavy sigh.

Wheeljack glanced back slightly, smiling beneath his faceplate. He gave Ratchet a playful bump with his headfin, which only elicited a tired grunt, and rested the back of his helm against Ratchet's as he settled in to continue wiping all the muck off.

They stayed like that for a klik, Wheeljack wiping down all of Ratchet's upper arm and moving to tackle his lower arm, which was nearly coated in various fluids. He shook his head and laughed softly at Ratchet's pristinely clean hands, as he'd continually washed and sterilized them between patients, but the rest of him had been completely neglected.

"What?" Ratchet asked, not moving from Wheeljack's shoulder.

"Nothing," he said, "just you," and he bumped one of his knees against Ratchet's.

"Hmph." Ratchet sat there, letting the tension leak out of his frame. He felt Wheeljack rubbing small circles down his arm, and let out a shaky breath. It was moments like these that kept him grounded, let him know that he wasn't fighting for every single one of these mechs lives by himself, that he wasn't alone. He nestled his head further into Wheeljack's neck, letting his friend take care of him.

Wheeljack finally cleaned off the top of Ratchet's lower arm and put the rag down on his knee. He grabbed Ratchet's wrist to pick up his arm and turn it over, and then noticed the extra weight. He sighed, "Ratchet, did you even empty out your vacuum tanks?"

"I was busy," he said, shifting to get more comfortable.

Wheeljack glanced at the ceiling and shook his head, _Primus_. "Open up," he said, tapping Ratchet's arm.

A small panel retracted and one end of the internal tank tilted out. Wheeljack grabbed the protruding end and pulled the rest of the tank out, nearly filled with energon and coolant, and put it on the floor. He'd dump that into the medbay's filtration system later.

He managed to get the last of the energon off Ratchet's arm, and feeling the medic cycling air against his neck, decided not to make him move just yet. So he dropped the rag he'd been using and picked the first one back up, which was still quite clean compared to the second, dabbed on some cleaner and began wiping down the half of Ratchet's chest he could see.

The rag squeaked over the broad windshield as he wiped it clean, Wheeljack steadily making his way down. He felt his other arm, currently snaked around Ratchet's waist, taking more of the medic's weight and smiled beneath his mask. Rarely did Ratchet let go like this, and after all these vorns it still touched the engineer, although he wished the surrounding circumstances weren't so inevitably dire.

He reached Ratchet's hip and refolded the cloth again, then began wiping down Ratchet's thigh. He scrubbed the long smears in small circles, the dry purple stains slowly lifting away. Wheeljack reached Ratchet's knee, and gave his shoulder a small shrug, "Alright, time to sit up."

Ratchet did, and looked steadily into Wheeljack's optics, "Thanks 'Jack." He leaned forward slightly until his chevron clinked against Wheeljac's helm, "I needed that." He sat back again and smiled softly.

Wheeljack beamed at him, then flashed his headfins. "Always," he said, as he reached down and grabbed the other rag and tossed it at Ratchet.

Ratchet caught it and opened and folded it a few times, looking for a clean spot, and both mechs went about cleaning the rest up. Ratchet wiped down his arm, while Wheeljack wiped down his chest and leg, the two of them sitting in companionable silence.

Ratchet finished first, and let his arms drop while Wheelack rubbed the last of the coolant off his knee. The engineer rose from his position on the floor, took the rag from Ratchet's hand, and walked across the room, dumping the dirty cloths into a receptacle in Ratchet's counter.

Ratchet leaned forward and sighed; he felt immeasurably better. He pushed off his knees and stood up, stretching slightly.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Ratchet dropped his arms and glared at Wheeljack questioningly, not appreciating his tone. "I told you, there's several things that need checking."

"Primus take you Ratchet," Wheeljack sighed in exasperation as he recrossed the room, "you're going back into recharge!" As he reached Ratchet he pushed on the large mech's shoulder and seated him back on the berth.

"I know your routine, they need rest and you're not actually going to do any work on them. You just need some readings for reference in the morning, which is," he quickly checked his chronometer, "three cycles from now." Wheeljack dropped his arm from Ratchet's shoulder, "Primus knows you need more than that, but you _will_ recharge at least that much before you begin the next stage of repairs."

Ratchet sighed, "And what about you?" he asked slightly challengingly.

"I'm going back to fraggin' recharge too!" Wheeljack leaned down so they were on optic level, "The only reason I'm down here is because I knew you needed those readings and were probably up taking them." He put his hand on Ratchet's chest and pushed slightly, "Now lie down."

Ratchet gave in and lay down, helm thunking back against his berth. He really did need the rest. "Brawn's energon levels need to be kept up."

"I know." Wheeljack said, backing towards the door.

"And check the suspension cables in Smokescreen's shoulder, I'm probably going to have to tighten them more."

"Gotcha."

"And go over everyone's soldering lines that are easily accessible, make sure they're ready for proper welding tomorrow."

"Right." Wheeljack stood there patiently, letting Ratchet indulge his need for control by at least giving orders.

Ratchet stared at the ceiling, going through his list and deciding the rest could wait. Except for one thing. "And make sure Sunstreaker's still recharging."

Wheeljack's hand paused over the keypad and he looked back.

"Don't open the examination door, he'll be up in a astrosecond, just check the camera feed and make sure he's out."

Wheeljack smiled beneath his mask, "Can do, Ratch." Ratchet cared about each of them immensely, entirely too much than was good for a medic, but there was no denying there were some he was more attached to than others. _Primus knows why_, Wheeljack shook his head and wondered, as he keyed open the door and left Ratchet's office.

Ratchet watched his friend go, wondering not for the first time how long ago he'd have snapped without him, but shuttered his optics and went back into recharge. Tomorrow was going to be another long day.

...

**A/N**: And there ya go, an impromptu chapter two. The medicalness took a backseat, and characterization was by far the focus, so that's what I'd like critiqued. Everyone seem right? I reworked Ratchet and Sideswipe's conversation four times, because they both care, but neither of them are touchy feely, so RatchTwins moments are always difficult. And I'm really hoping I didn't lay on the fluff with Wheeljack too thick, I can do that sometimes. Anyways, hope y'all enjoyed, and hopefully I can start making some more progress on my other projects too. Til next time!


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